


He Probably Never Will

by brianaa_c



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, Longing, Masturbation, Oral Sex, good luck readin this guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brianaa_c/pseuds/brianaa_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She closes her eyes and he's there, with her, just like he was all those nights in their secret hotel rooms in Moscow, holding her close, breathing her in, the moon casting shadows on her pale skin and his metal arm.</p>
<p>Set directly after the fight on the highway in Captain America: The Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Probably Never Will

**Author's Note:**

> On the off chance that Natasha recognized the Winter Soldier as part of her past. Here's to hoping they'll be canon in MCU eventually.

Natasha couldn't breathe.

Partly because she was just released from medical, and her shoulder still hurt like a bitch.

She also couldn't breathe because as of six hours ago, the Winter Soldier hasn't let her.

She knew she was still shaking as she walked through the hall of Sam's house, evading him and Steve altogether, heading to the room Sam had lent to her for the time being. She closed the door behind her, leaning her forehead on the oak wood, pressing her hands into the smooth grooves. 

She still couldn't breathe. But she could sob.

And so she did.

Truthfully, she didn't think she'd ever see him again after Odessa. She knew he was still alive, she figured that much, but thought he would still be chained to the satellite nations of Russia, just like she once was. It never crossed her mind that he would come here.

Her lungs force a sharp intake of oxygen and her throat is on fire, her skin matching her hair. She sinks to her knees, crossing her arms over her stomach, doubled over in silent cries. She couldn't let them hear.

Unlike Odessa, he was so close this time around. Inches away from her. His shot in Odessa was a long-range bullet, and she tricked herself into believing that if he saw her, he wouldn't have taken it. But today, she was proven wrong as she watched him look straight at her, not even five feet from her, and raise a rifle at her. He looked her right in the eye and tried to kill her.

Natasha wasn't one to cry. It was because of him that she had the hardest exterior possible. She had to protect herself from everyone, including her haunting memories of their affair in Moscow. Now, it was because of him that she cried.

Anger rolled over her shoulders, and she slapped the carpet with her palm, as hard as she could.

"Damnit." Her shoulder stung, but it was nothing. "Keep yourself together," she told herself in her mother tongue.

Eventually, she was able to pick herself off the ground and drag herself to the bed. She was numb as she rid herself of her clothes, swallowing when she ran her finger over the bullet hole in the leather of her jacket, letting it slip through her nimble fingers.

The silence was overwhelming her in the worst way possible as she slipped under the duvet, the darkness consuming her.

She rolled onto her back. Oh, how she wished he was with her right now. Yesterday, the 50s felt as if they couldn't be farther away. Today, they sucker punched her, right in the gut.

She lets her mind wander as she stares at the ceiling. The Red Room will always be branded into her brain, haunting her for the rest of her never-ending life. It was he who made it better. She wondered what he was doing. If he even remembered Odessa at all, or if they wiped his mind after each mission. He was probably frozen in a cryotank. She frowned. He deserved better.

She wills her brain to project him on the ceiling as she stares up. Now that she saw him again. It was easier to remember his icy eyes. The curve of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. She likes to think he still has the same mindset as he once did with her, in the Red Room, but she knows that's a lie. His eyes were hardened now. Downright cold, shut off from everything.

She closes her eyes and he's there, with her, just like he was all those nights in their secret hotel rooms in Moscow, holding her close, breathing her in, the moon casting shadows on her pale skin and his metal arm.

His foreign voice reaches out to her in the darkness. "Lay back, Natalia." She's proud of herself. She remembers his near-perfect Russian, the jump in his tone whenever he used her birth name. 

She knew what she was doing. Her brain was replaying a memory forged in 1957, where he gave up sneaking into her barracks altogether and just took her to a hotel. It helped her believe it was really him.

Her hand trailed across her collarbone and down her chest, but all she saw was his metal fingers. She took a deep breath and crossed her pointer finger over her nipple, and she gasped, practically feeling the chill of metal.

"I got you."

She gives into her mind, and she sees him. He's standing at the foot of the bed, glancing down at her, the blinds from the window putting lined shadows on his body. His eyes are warm and kind again, and he gives her a mischievous grin.

"My love..." It was easy to forget he was truly American sometimes, so easy to wish they could last outside of this blue hotel room.

He joined her on the bed, careful not to press any of his weight onto her as he came down on top of her, even though he knew she liked it. He kissed her, his lips ghosting over hers. She smiles, all teeth as his lips trail down, lower and lower, past her neck and her breasts and her stomach. He moves them down to her knee, kissing a bruise he left her earlier today due to throwing her on the ground in training. He trails them up the sensitive skin of the insides of her thighs. She laughs, tickled, and he nips her skin with his teeth hard enough to leave a mark, causing her to swallow her laugh and replace it with a whimper. She squirms.

His flesh hand goes to her stomach, gently holding her still. "Patience, dearest."

She brings her hands down to his hair, calmly stroking before grabbing at the roots, making him look at her. His eyes were shocked, but he knew he shouldn't have expected any less. "Fuck patience," she grins down at him. 

He decided to give her what she wanted, putting his mouth over her core, and she lets a leg drop to the side. His right arm wraps around her thigh, throwing it over his shoulder as he starts out slow, barely giving her any friction.

"Come on," she begs him, pulling on his hair, trying to rock her hips against his tongue. "Give me something to work with."

His flesh hand tightens around her leg as he does just that. He moves his mouth against her, licking through her folds, fucking her with his tongue. Her eyes flutter closed as his metal hand goes to her hip, pulling her farther down the bed and closer to him. Her insides are lit on fire.

She can't help but shy away from him when he tongues her clit, the pleasure too great. But his metal arm is there, clamping down over her stomach, not allowing her to move. He tortures her mercilessly as the speed of his tongue going back and forth on her clit not letting up.

She can't take it. She releases a hand from his hair, attaching it to her breast. She squeezes in time with the flicks of his tongue, a moaning mess above him.

She knows its over when he lets go of her thigh, pressing a finger into her as he bears down on her clit with his teeth. Her yelp is too loud, because his icy eyes glance up and cut to her, narrowing slightly. She knew. If they were compromised, he was dead. 

The speed of his fingers were inhuman, and she couldn't comprehend any of her inward thoughts as he finger fucked her, pressing her down by his bionic arm into the mattress. 

He sucked hard on her clit once more, and it was enough to send her over the edge. She yanked on his hair as she came, biting down on her finger when she knew she was about to scream. He thrusted his fingers as she finished, maximizing her pleasure until it was over.

He rises up over her, and she's shaking when she reaches for his jaw, holding him gingerly. The metal hand that was now resting on her ribs, just below her breast, had never felt more gentle. He leans down to whisper in her ear as she hugs him.

"I love you."

Natasha opens her eyes, and she's back in the pitch black room. She removes her fingers from her core, wiping her arousal on the sheets as she cooled herself down, making a metal note to wash Sam's bedding before she and Steve left. 

Silence sets over her again when she comes down, the Winter Soldier no where to be found. 

She pushed the covers from her body, welcoming the cold as she stood up and walked to the closet, squatting down as she reached for her pack. She rummaged in her bag, pulling out a t-shirt and a modest pair of underwear. She hesitated before decided to dig deeper in her bag, pulling out a medium sized tin box from the deepest corner.

With a deep breath, she removed the lid, setting it on the ground gingerly, as if it were priceless glass. She carefully reached in and pulled out a small picture, not even the size of her palm. It was of her and her soldier. It was a blurry picture of them, clearly taken by intelligence, when they first suspected their affair. She swiped it from his file when she found it after Odessa, and she hadn't let it out of her possession since.

She swallows a sob as she runs a finger over his blurry body, wishing he would be open with her again and smile and be merry, like he clearly was in the photograph. She will not cry again.

She could hear Steve knocking on her door, begging her to let him in so he can talk to her. He saw the way she looked after the fight on the highway, as if she'd seen a ghost. He knew she knew about him, knew more than Bucky just being his childhood friend. When the time was right, she'd tell him her story of her version of the Winter Solder eventually. The one who had the capacity to love her.

She pushed out the sound of constant knocking from her head, hoping he would just figure she was asleep and walk away. She leaned forward, resting her forehead on the doorframe of her closet, looking at the picture between her fingers again. 

She looks down at the box once more, placing the picture back safely, under his folded shirt that he gave her back in 1959. She hasn't worn it since. The Winter Soldier couldn't even remember his best friend. Why the hell would he remember her?

Natasha sighs, pushing up on her thighs and standing up, closing the closet door.

He probably never will.


	2. He Knew Her

He keeps his head down as he walks alongside faceless men, leading him to God knows wear. He tries to move his arm, to clasp his hands together, but the gears inside hiss before giving out, falling limp beside him.

"We'll fix that," someone tells him in Russian. He doesn't acknowledge the man. 

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out._

Eventually, they reach some sort of vaulted room. He's pushed into a chair, and two men with lab coats scurry forward, one to fix his arm, the other to presumable check vitals. He looks up to see men with automatic guns guarding the door. Probably in case he tried to run. Which, he didn't really blame them.

They were lying to him. He knew that woman, the one he shot in the city. It wasn't the face he recognized, but the voice. That deep, almost raspy voice. It shook him when he first heard it, as if he heard her in a dream and he had just woken up.

And she certainly seemed to know him. Every move of hers was calculated, tailored exclusively for him. She knew what to go for and what to avoid. It was almost as if she's fought him before. 

 _Impossible,_ he thinks as he glances up, Alexander Pierce entering the room. He somehow nods his way through the conversation, and after consulting with the doctors, he deems it fit to leave him out of the cryo chamber. When his arm is fixed, he makes a fist, the bionic joints humming back to life. The doctor smiles.

He's lead back to what looks like something short of a jail cell, and he hasn't seen it before. He's told, however, that this is where he's been staying during his American tour. There's a bed in the corner, next to a desk with countless files strewn about. The walls are dark and dull, and the light is flickering. The men that led him here steps out and shuts the door, leaving him alone to himself. 

Curiously, he looks to the files. He recognizes some. Nick Fury. Howard Stark. Some guy named Wayne. He steps closer, picking up the top file. RODGERS, STEVEN: CAPTAIN AMERICA was written across the front in Russian. He opens it to see a picture of the man he fought on the causeway, with the shield. He tosses the file aside, looking for one in particular. 

Eventually, towards the bottom, he reaches it. ROMANOFF, NATASHA. It was the name he was briefed with, when he was first given his mission. But when he opened the file, it was noticeably light. Lighter than it ever should be for someone like her. 

He flips through the pages carefully, reading every word, looking for something without even knowing what he was looking for. She lived in Manhattan in Stark Tower. She was an Avenger. She was 5'7 and weighed 136 pounds. She was a gymnast and a ballet dancer. Nothing was clicking in his head, and he was getting frustrated. He recognized something about her. He  _knew_ he did.

It was as if her life started five years ago. Nothing before 2007 was documented. He flips back to the front, noticing the front cover wasn't the typical file. It looked newer, as if it had just been printed. Looking closer inside, he notices a hefty chunk of pages were ripped out. The average person wouldn't have noticed, but they never trained him to be  _average._

He frowns as he closes the file, holding it vertically, looking down. More than half was gone. Judging by the size of the spine of the file, she's had a pretty busy life, and he needed to know more.

The man inside him told him to put the paper down and just go to sleep. His shoulders ached from exhaustion, and his muscles were well past the point of sore from exertion. But the spy he was now needed to pry, needed to shed light on whoever Natasha Romanoff was.

His mind back-tracked, following the steps he took to get in here. Two guarded men just outside the door. A narrow hallway that leads to a dark channel room filled with computers, most likely with very sought-after databases of "American Heroes," which probably has around four men, unarmed. If he can get a gun from one of the guards that would be easy to get through. If he timed it right, he would have seven minutes before anyone was alerted and made their way to him. He could do it in four.

They were lying to him. He knew her.

He knew her, and he was going to find out how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty short and rushed, I know, but I just kind of wanted to add a second part to this, with Bucky's point of view and how I wished the movie would have went.


End file.
